Primal Promise

Twenty-Three

"I'll keep an eye on everyone here," Herb spoke up, glancing to Jameson. His eyes revealed that he was not doing so out of an unwillingness to follow Jameson but to act as reassurance so that Blaine could act without being distracted by fear for his mate and children.

Jameson felt honored. He felt fear. He felt the pride of his clan. Pride in his clan, and for the first time since his father's passing he began to imagine himself taking up the mantle of their leader. "Alright. Go prepare. Dress for it. Bring your skins. Keep them close but they're not to be used unless there is no other choice.  Otherwise, come dawn, we'll be weak as they are."

The group nodded and broke up. It wasn't as if they'd packed for a nighttime venture into enemy territory. The cars pulled away, Jaris and Blaine moving away to a bedroom where their kids were sleeping. Jameson was left alone with Herb and Isabella, his most trusted advisers.

"What if it's too late? I've heard about what happens when your mate dies. How you can lose yourself."

"My father never really knew his mate. When she was gone, they'd never bonded other than to know they were the other's match. Maybe that's why he was able to move on as he did." Herb said. "I don't think she's dead, Jay, and I don't think you're crazy."

"She lives," Isabella said. There was no emotion behind it, no tone of reassurance, no hint that this was just her being hopeful. It was as much a fact as if she'd said 'water is wet'.

Jameson nodded. "I suppose I should get ready too." He set his hand on Herb's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, then stalked off toward the door and his car. The drive would be short, and he'd be back quickly.

It was just a fact that when you had money, you could get things you wanted. It was, he supposed, the definition of being spoiled, but he was always grateful for everything he had, or at least he tried to be. Right now he was grateful for the fact he had more than one house. The cabin was not well-stocked, but the ranch was. It was empty when he arrived, as he expected.

He made his way up to his room, pulling off his shirt the instant he entered. He opened the closet, choosing gear he thought appropriate. Heavy socks into which he tucked his heavy black cargo pants. An UnderArmor shirt pulled across his wide chest and tucked in, a black tee pulled over that. He reached up into his closet and drew down the carved chest.

With reverent hands he lifted the fur out, the softness of it always amazing him. He craved the feel of it, the shifting, the strength that would bring him. At dawn, it would come off and he'd be naked and weak. That was not going to help him, and even though he expected the bestial side of him to roar out for it, to demand and claw, it was quiet. It lay, growling menacingly at the back of his mind. He folded the luxurious black fur in half and then again, slipping it into a backpack.

He removed another box, this one heavy steel and locked by a combination. When opened, it revealed a single Thompson Center Contender G2 pistol. The G2 was unique in that it could be altered to fire a wide variety of ammunition depending on which barrel you chose. This one was made to fire .410 shotgun cartridges. They were unique as well. Each of the seemingly ordinary shells was filled with steel buckshot coated in silver.

He thought back to the night he'd found it among his father's things, a box marked only 'For Jameson - just in case'. With the steel gun case and the box of ammo was a memory stick. What was on it he would never forget.

The only thing on it was a video file. Opened, it revealed a split-screen. One half was dark, only the very barest hints of movement visible. The other was night-vision. In that world of hazy green and glowing white eyes, the bestial manifestation of James Holt was chained to the wall of some dark basement room, his arms outward in a crucifixion position, unable to move.